Traveling (with Frost) down the lightly trodden path,
with shoed soles sauntering over thawed earth,
twisting down the narrow trail,
away from the prying eyes of tour guides—
Encompassed by flowery heads who mirror the sun,
who burst forth with fluorescent green necks
craning from the dirt,
delineating our path in cascades of springing splendor.
Sensing the ostinato of ambulant waters crescendo,
we soon break from the budding foliage—
To be greeted by gentle winds
and the lapping of placid waves
who break onto the languid shore
onto shoed and socked feet,
who sense holy ground and immediately
kick off their bindings—
To sink into the earth,
and gritty sand reaching up between toes;
the water deceptively inviting,
is greeted with delightful shrieks in its refreshing chill.
Secluded in our cove,
we gaze over the waters where to our right
rests a breathing reconstruction of the Dove;
we stand awed before these waters
both the settler and the native.
What gods were praised on these lands,
and in these woods,
and in these skies,
and in these waters?
And on March 25, 1634,
in the promising onset of spring,
what had they to sing in the calm airs
as the settlers crossed the threshold of the Potomac?
She whispers,
“Funny how the water appears green on the shore,
and clear on the river.”
--St. Mary's City, March 10, 2016.
